


Powerless God without an Idol

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Being Lost, Emotional Hurt, Insanity, Lack of control, M/M, Powerlessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:22:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very short fic in which Pyro has an emotional breakdown, realizes he no longer has a thing for Bobby, goes for weeks without fire, and almost gives up waiting for relief to come in the form of Magneto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Powerless God without an Idol

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a little something I started working on one day when I was miserable, so I completed it and figured I'd upload it. So yeah. Enjoy, if it's enjoyable!

A high-pitched scream shuddered through the crisp night air, terror cutting through his veins like an icy knife. It raked his throat, going on for what seemed like an eternity because he had no sense of time anymore. The darkness folded him in its cool embrace, as though trying to grant him some comfort. But there was no comfort to be found anywhere anymore. The universe was so void of anything warm, anything kind. The sound faded eventually, but the scream was still coming silently through his open mouth, and it continued to do so while the cold sweat that drenched his body dripped down his forehead and pooled in tightly closed eyes. He bent over, as if the hollow in his stomach was continuous pain instead. It was so cold, after all - it could’ve passed as pain. Short dirty blond hair made an uneven frame, hanging limp and damp around his face and plastered the nape of his neck. 

He stayed like that forever - hunched over on cold ground with stones and wood digging into his knees - until his throat felt like he’d swallowed a coil of razor wire and he couldn’t scream anymore. Cold hands clenched into fists and cold tears streamed down his face, a few of them helping to crack already dry lips as he cried.

He couldn’t have drawn a line to mark the point where he drifted into unconsciousness, body convulsing with sobs. He couldn’t have told you when rough but warm hands turned him over, because he wasn’t there. He was unable to describe what it felt like to be cleaned up by a colder pair and then carried by the warm ones for hours before they got on a jet, because he didn’t know it was happening when it did. But he could certainly tell you what waking up in a warm bed, in a warm room, with someone who cared hanging over him with a relieved smile and gently coaxing him awake was like.

It felt like the kind of dream where you’re not sure if it’s beautiful or a nightmare.

He reacted like it was a nightmare, shoving away the cold hands because he wasn’t strong enough to knock teeth loose from that perfect smile, and he couldn’t demand to be left alone because he couldn’t yell at the icy blue eyes that just begged to be let in. Then there were more warm hands and more faces he recognized and hated.

He drifted into the world of the unconscious again.

The next time he woke up, the sterile room was bare. His shaking legs would not support him. And he was still cold. So, so cold, and it wasn’t there. He could feel it, far away, too far for him to call it back to him. Too far for it to reach him with its warmth. He collapsed on the stiff medical bed and gave up for now, because right now he was nothing. He had no fire. He had no purpose. He was a god stripped of his might. He pretended to be asleep when the cold boy returned. He listened to the conversations they had when they thought he was asleep. He pretended to stay asleep for days, until he could actually walk. But he still pretended, because maybe one day he _would_ sleep.

Maybe he would sleep forever when his sanity disappeared. Maybe it was simply a matter of time.

He had almost given up after an eternity had passed. There was no night, no day, just the same white light and constant cold. 

One day he felt the miniscule reverberations in the metal walls of the room, at first accepting it for a moment as a simple imagination. The results of slowly losing his mind. But it became stronger, until the metal was practically singing. He sat up and changed into the clothes that had been folded beside the bed for almost a month, and when he finally pulled on his jacket and turned to march out of the place of learning, the only familiar face he had been truly happy to see in a long time was waiting in the doorway.

The older man held out his upturned hand and the rectangular piece of metal hovered above ground.

He stepped forward and plucked the precious life source from the air, flicking it on and revelling in the immediate warmth and pleasure that washed over him. He grinned wickedly, a quiet but manic chuckle following, and closed the lighter after stealing its flame. He looked back up at his saviour, flames dancing about his own fingers, with the utmost respect and adoration while strands of iron pulled him against the lips he had grown so accustomed to.

He would never long for ice again when he could have the chill of metal instead.

He would never wish for cold blue eyes and boyish immaturity in the place of steady grey and commanding dictatorship. 

“Welcome back, Pyro.”


End file.
